


Traveling is No Pastime

by SunnyD_lite



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Post TV Series - Not Comic compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-17
Updated: 2006-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyD_lite/pseuds/SunnyD_lite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the AfriXander challenge. My country was the Greater Western Sahara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traveling is No Pastime

**Author's Note:**

> **Title: Traveling is No Pastime  
> Author:** Sunnyd_lite  
> **Feedback &amp; Concrit:** Hit me!  
> **Disclaimer:** Joss created, corporations own, and I'm just playing for fun not profit!!   
> **Word Count:** 3,667  
> A World of Thanks to my beta, and 1st writercon roomie, **spiralleds** Thanks bunches for all the grammar (hey I learned something!) and story and title assist!  
> After several of my Friends List signing up I decided to play too! I chose the country Western Sahara.

All he wanted was to get his passport stamped.

After the disastrous road trip that wasn't, he wanted proof that he'd actually traveled. His passport had an English stamp on it, but he'd been miffed when he'd found out Scotland didn't stamp when you drove across the border. He'd picked one up in Morocco, and that had been a prelude to an adventure of the not so fun kind. No more strip search fantasies for him!

But he'd found the slayer — his first in Africa, but his twentieth solo find. Once he'd gotten her packed up and sent on to Rome, he was given another name that the Coven said was in the Western Sahara.

New country, new passport stamp. Simple.

Not so much.

And why did they name all the cities TWICE, and not in a New York, New York kind of way? He was trying to find El Aaiún, but it wasn't on any maps he picked up in Casablanca. Whenever he asked, he was told to go to Laâyoune, but the witches said, or rather emailed, El Aaiún.

Finally someone took pity on the poor, one-eyed American and asked which El Aaiún he was looking for, the city or the refugee camp?

Refugee camp?

And then came the wall. Or the Berm as they called it. The same person who'd told him about El Aaiún had told him that it was ten feet tall, and, from the pictures, it reminded him less of the Great Wall of China Willow had shown him in National Geographic and a bit more like that Berlin wall everyone had talked about in fourth grade, but without the graffiti. And he didn't think the Soviets had used land mines.

Although that bit of intel explained why the people here were less freaked by his eye patch. People being in bits and pieces weren't unusual, or even note-worthy. As much as he hated the attention the patch usually brought, once he realized why it wasn't causing a commotion, it freaked him even more.

He'd grown up in a world where everything could be fixed. Braces, contacts, cosmetics AND cosmetic surgery. Au natural wasn't even contemplated, even as far outside of LA as Sunnydale was. The whole culture of physical perfection? Just wasn't here. It, well, it took some adjusting to.

Anyway, he'd emailed the Coven; luckily they wanted this Laâyoune place and he wouldn't have to go roving through the desert, getting picked on by camels, in order to find a refugee camp outside the six, count 'em SIX walls that Morocco had build in the eighties. See, he could do basic research without the Magic Box; behold the magic of the internet.

But he couldn't get his passport stamped.

He'd flown with Royal Air Morac from Casablanca, and every time he heard that city's name he got a craving for beans. He didn't WANT to know how his brain cross-wired those two things. He'd felt a bit like he was in an Indiana Jones movie when he had to walk down rollout steps to the tarmac before crossing over to the main airport building. The weather wasn't as hot as he thought a desert would be. Not that the city was the desert, but still, you expect certain things and mid-sixties wasn't what he expected.

So now here he was, at an airstrip in West Sahara. There hadn't been a customs check, and no passport control. Therefore, no stamp to prove he'd been here.

It irritated him, and he wasn't really sure why. It wasn't like anything else on this trip had been what he'd expected.

Everything seemed to happen in French here, which caused him to flash back to the first slayer dream, not a comforting feeling especially since Africa was her turf. Maybe that's why he'd drawn the straw for Africa? Nah, the there'd been too much going on for the others to have organized the Zeppo into facing the first slayer.

He found a taxi, and checking his notes, requested the Hotel Nagir. He noticed that the lobby was full of people in military uniforms, carrying light blue helmets. After "discussing" his reservation with a clerk who only reinforced the stereotypes of a snooty maitre d', he finally was given a room key and headed up to get some sleep. It might all be the same time zone, but he still felt exhausted from all the hurry-up-and-wait approach to travel.

Despite the hotel's multi-star rating, he debated carrying up his duffle bag himself until the question was rendered moot when a bell boy, who looked like he was in his seventies, loaded it onto a rattling cart, and ushered him through the lobby towards the bank of elevators while discussing the hotel's restaurant and amenities, not that there were all that many.

Once outside his room, he asked, "Who are the military with the light blue helmets?"

"MINURSO," was the quick and curt reply from the previously chatty fellow.

Handing him a pink 10 dirhams note as a tip, Xander asked, "What's Minso?"

The currency quickly disappeared and the 'boy' entered his room. Xander figured it was to show him the facilities, something he'd discovered he needed even in Rome. Who knew showers could be activated in so many ways? Turned out, there was more the bellguy had to say.

"U.N. peace keepers. You're lucky to get a room; normally the hotel is completely theirs."

"Peace keepers? And are they? Keeping the peace, that is. Not needing to dodge bullets here!"

The gentleman snorted. "Not here. The ones patrolling are out on the Berm. These ones are mostly bureaucrats pushing for things that don't need doing."

That was as illuminating a comment as anything he hadn't understood in Ms. Wilson's math class and this time there was no Willow available for tutoring.

"Ah, okay then. Thanks for the help, with the bag and all. Though guess that is your job, what with the bellboy outfit, or are you a bellman?" Great, Xander babble in full effect. "Um, besides the formal restaurant, is there anywhere to eat around here?"

That's how he found himself, in the early evening, walking through what in an American city might have been a large parking lot. The concrete tile of the Place Mechouar was bordered with a grid of palm trees that looked a lot like pineapples on 'roids. The bellboy told him that there was an area with restaurants and shops, the Suuq Djemal, not too far from the square.

He noticed that most of the buildings were low rise, with none of the towers or skyscrapers of larger cities. There were towers, but they were attached to mosques. He'd liked the idea of the call to prayer, until he'd been woken up in Casablanca by the booming of the early morning call. No snooze button on those things.

After passing the large mosque, he noticed that it was one of the few buildings in the square that wasn't flying the green flag with a red, five-point star; like the kind you're taught to draw in grade school. He knew that it was the flag of Morocco, but he thought this was the Western Sahara, even if they did use the same money. But most of Europe was using the Euro, so he hadn't thought about having to change currency.

He paused to take in the architecture, with its square edges and arch shaped doors and windows. Most of the buildings appeared to be clay or clay-covered. With another look at the palm trees, he realized that wood couldn't be the base building material.

His walk continued past a row of buildings whose small domed roofs looked like a blister pack of medicine. There were more people on the street now, and he could hear the sound of a crowd just ahead of him. He could also smell roasted meat and his stomach reminded him that he'd slept through lunch.

His time in England and Europe had lessened his reliance on big box stores and malls, but the open stalls of dubious construction were still a novelty. Most of them were partially inside of buildings, which were a bit like a stage and lacking a front wall.

As he kept walking, he noticed that there were large shutters on both sides of the openings. Some were covered by brightly colored blankets or other wares for sale, obscuring their original purpose. He didn't stop, but decided to walk around the area, just to get a feel for it before finding something to eat. With his now limited peripheral vision, knowing an area had become a habit. One he barely realized he had.

He was heading back towards one of the food stalls when he stopped suddenly to look at some craftwork. Buffy's birthday was coming up and she did love her pressies, even if she wasn't a fan of birthday celebrations. He hadn't been paying attention to the crowd because after he stopped, someone knocked into him and he heard a string of what he assumed to be curses. It wasn't Arabic, it sounded French.

Turning, he came face to face with a brunette in fatigues and that seemingly trendy headgear, the blue helmet. Or rather he came face to top of her head as she was looking down, trying to brush off whatever had spilled onto her uniform.

"I'm sorry. Did I cause that? Can I help?" He reached out to assist but luckily noticed WHERE on her top she'd spilled. Groping someone in uniform, probably not the best impression and he really didn't want to be doing a comparison report on incarceration in Africa.

She finished wiping a brown stain from her right breast and glared up at him through slightly shaggy bangs.

His "oops" face must still be working, because her incendiary glare dropped from flambé to mere first-degree burns.

"Hi, I'm Xander and it looks like I owe you… something." Maintaining his "oops" expression, he carefully gestured towards the stain, making sure he didn't brush too close.

It must have done the trick because she replied, with a beguilingly lilting accent, "Amélie. Just don't ask me about garden gnomes."

He must have looked confused because she continued, "C'est n'est pas importante. Don't worry about it. Why are you here?"

"I was told it was a good place to grab some food, but not sure if I'm up to point and munch. Kinda dithering between knowing what I'm eating and the ignorance is bliss approach to foreign cuisine." Xander used his "yes I'm goofy but I'm harmless" smile which, actually, hadn't worked so well for him in the past. Luckily, she seemed to find Xander babble closer to charming than irritating.

"Hmm, have you tried le chameau? Oh, how do you say...camel?"

"Not even ridden one, and are you serious? They serve camel? Do you think you could be my guide away from that?"

Which was how he scored himself a not-so-local guide. She was shorter than he was, but not by much, making her almost Dawn height. And while she didn't carry herself like a slayer, she did have a grace despite the big boots of her uniform. Amélie knew her way around the market area, taking a wide berth around certain stalls and guiding him to a place he'd have missed otherwise. There were a few tables set in front of the counter and with a tilt of her head and a raised eyebrow; she indicated that he should sit.

The weathered man behind the counter greeted her with a warmth reserved for families or guests on Oprah. They spoke in rapid, what he assumed was, French, as it wasn't the guttural sounds he'd learned to associate with Arabic and some demon languages.

She turned to face him as they laughed, and he waved in an abashed manner. He didn't mind being the butt of a joke if it got him fed what he'd consider edible food. He'd been a bit confused in England's pubs. What on earth was a Spotted Dick and why was it on so many menus? And there it had been in what he'd supposed to be HIS language. Add in the whole foreign language, and he was grateful for any and all assistance.

He noticed her giving him another appraising look and then with a nod, she returned to the table carrying a small glass bottle. She dropped her helmet on an empty seat and placed the drink on the small wooden table.

"It is his last bottle of Coke. You look to need it," she said with a smile.

"Nectar of the gods. Beloved caffeine and sugar!" he exclaimed, glancing at her to see if she was finding this funny or tiresome. Those gods must have been pleased with his prayer because she continued to smile. A young girl appeared from behind the counter, so young Xander hadn't seen her from this side, and brought Amélie a small metal teapot and glass.

"Attay - mint tea," she explained. "Safer than the water." She shrugged, which caused her bangs to fall in front of her hazel eyes. She absently swiped the hair out of the way. "You are here to eat, yes? But why here, in Laâyoune? As you can see, there aren't many backpackers. Not even an internet café."

That got his attention. In Europe there was always a 24 hour internet place around. To be in a city without one? Okay, so not in Kansas anymore, not that he'd make it to Kansas in the first place.

"I'm staying at the Hotel Nagir." He stopped as he saw her stiffen. What had he…? Oh god. Meet girl, smile at girl, tell girl where his hotel is. King of the Cretins is back in the house. "No, I was just wondering if you knew if THEY had a business center? With computers?"

That brought the small smile back and she nodded.

He wiped his brow in an exaggerated fashion. "That's good then. I contact my friends by email and I don't want them to think I've gotten lost. I've only been in Africa a couple of weeks. It should take at least a month to go missing, don't you think?"

"You are trés amusant, Xander. I think you are not as lost as you act; you found the Suuq did you not?"

"As long as it's not from a teacher, I take direction well," he replied.

"But only if you approve, I think," she countered with a bit of a smirk.

Luckily, he was saved from responding to that by the presentation of a plate of couscous and stew with two spoons.

"Not camel?"

With a wide grin, she reassured him. "Not camel, they were out of it today." His reaction caused her to laugh out loud. "C'est une blague, a joke! It is lamb. A Tijer."

"A what? And it smells," he said, pausing and trying to decipher the scents rising from the dish, "like Christmas?"

"Ginger and cinnamon." She nodded. "And others." Shaking her head, Amélie must have decided to take pity on him, because she grabbed a spoon and began to eat.

With a shrug he dug in, getting a scoop of the grainy couscous and stew. Chewing, he found an odd texture like... "Dates? They put fruit in their stews? It's like a Hawaiian pizza."

"Some have apricots and almonds, too." She smiled, taking another spoonful. "So, Xander, where are you from?" Her gaze flitted over his face then dipped to his lips.

"California. And you?"

"Nice. California, you were near the beach, yes?"

"Yes, but we didn't get there often. Is there a beach near here? There was a lot of fish in the stalls."

"Yes, but it's all sandy," she said with disdain.

That brought him up short. "Aren't all beaches sandy?"

"Non, in Nice it's a pebble beach, less messy. There is too much sand here; it gets into everything."

Her nose wrinkled as her mouth made the cutest moue. "So besides providing critique of the local waterfront, what brings you here? The bellman mentioned something like Min-so?"

She tilted her head a moment, and ran a thumb across her lips as she considered something. "How much do you know about the history of this area?"

"They built walls in the eighties, right? Oh and this city has two names—did they do that just to confuse people?" He had knowledge, might only be a thimbleful, but it was his.

She nodded, confirming his facts. But, instead of answering his question, she took a deep breath. "This used to be a Spanish colony, but they left in the mid-seventies."

"Colony? In the seventies? That's, well, old but not as old as… a colony?" Xander was trying to absorb this new world view. Colonies were things that Spike talked about, not stuff that affected his daily life.

"Was a colony, then the Spanish left, and no one was in charge. It's still listed as a Non-self Governing Territory." She paused to scoop up some more of the stew. He noticed that she'd dropped the teasing tone.

"Who else was living here? It couldn't have been empty. Colonies have the colonized, right?" Guess he had been listening to Willow during her oppressed peoples stage.

"They are called many things: Bedouin live in the desert, while the Bedu stay in the settlements. Sahrauois is the collective term. They are not like the Moroccans."

"So what happened? Why didn't they just take over?" That would have made sense, like when you leave your parents' house and have to make do for yourself.

"I'm not sure. I just know that Morocco extended its borders and built one wall after another to maintain their control. For neighboring territories, the populations do not mix well. Even today there are complaints of human rights abuses, but we can only interfere so much." A cloud of both frustration and sadness passed over her features.

"In school, the role of the U.N., it looked so clear. A non-partisan organization to make things work, like Star Fleet, but this mission has been here over a dozen years and we still haven't had the referendum." Shaking her head, she poured herself some more tea. "Referendum, mon Dieu, we still don't have a census of this city with which every one agrees!" Her hand tightened around her glass.

"You guys are here for a vote?" He was beginning to feel a little ashamed that he hadn't voted in the last election; Buffy was moving in then out of the dorm and it had seemed too much of a bother. Anya had berated him for not voting, since she couldn't be a registered voter and she didn't want the government interfering with her management of the Magic Box.

Amilie snorted, so much for his view of sophisticated French lasses. "M.I.N.U.R.S.O. stands for M Ission des Nation Unies pour l'organization d'un Référendum au Saraha Occidental, or en anglais, United Nations Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara. Since the cease-fire, this is our goal, and we have not achieved it." She pushed the last of the couscous around the plate; then looked up. "My apologies, I did not mean to runt."

"Runt? Oh, rant. Trust me, I've seen rants and that doesn't qualify. Was this stuff in the guidebooks? Should I have bought a guidebook? It was hard to find anything in Casablanca."

"The Moroccan government, the King would rather not remind peoples. There is an organization of the Sahrauios, called the Polisario Front, they have been fighting for self-government since before the Spanish left, over thirty years."

"Wow, and I thought our presidential campaigns were endless." He knew he was being flip, but how do you respond when the basic order of things just isn't anymore? He'd dealt with finding out vampires existed by joining the fight, but this lack of democracy… he thought saving the world was big, but it was always accomplished. This had been going on longer than he'd been alive and he'd never known about it.

Amélie smiled. "I'm sorry, I must sound like one of those dreaded teachers. I'm having dinner with a cute American and I'm speaking of local politics. No wonder my friends tease me."

"No, you're passionate. And it's a good fight here, worth while. Not many people can say that about their work. Plus you think I'm cute, which absolves all sorts of sins and misdemeanors!"

She glanced at her watch. "Ah non! Speaking of misdemeanors, I was to check in. I am sorry, I must go. But comme tu veut, if you like, tomorrow I could show you the old Spanish part of town, oui? There are some areas which are not safe for westerners, if you don't mind being protected by a female?"

Finally, familiar territory. "Not at all," he said with a smile. No need to explain why that idea didn't wig him, and it might let him find out where the new slayer was. "You know where my hotel is?"

After they made arrangements to meet up in the afternoon, Amélie shook his hand firmly then winked as she headed off. Was that a date he'd just had? And not of the fruit kind?

He thought about what she'd told him, how this area had gone from one external governing force to another. How the local population could only react and not act on their own motivations and decisions. It caused him to think about the influences in his life and if he'd been the main actor or whether he'd been swept up by other forces.

"Non-self governing territories." Xander sat in the small café, sipping his expensive coke while smelling the ubiquitous mint tea and pondered whether he would be deemed a "non-self governing territory" and if it was time to vote on that status. Whatever he decided, it looked like he wouldn't be getting a stamp for the Western Sahara.

-FIN-

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N2:** The title comes from a Henry David Thoreau quotation from "A Week on the Concrod and Merrimack Rivers". And found at Bartleby.com. The full quotation is:
> 
> True and sincere traveling is no pastime, but it is as serious as the grave, or any part of the human journey, and it requires a long probation to be broken into it. I do not speak of those that travel sitting, the sedentary travelers whose legs hang dangling the while, mere idle symbols of the fact, any more than when we speak of sitting hens we mean those that sit standing, but I mean those to whom traveling is life for the legs, and death too, at last. The traveler must be born again on the road, and earn a passport from the elements, the principal powers that be for him. He shall experience at last that old threat of his mother fulfilled, that he shall be skinned alive. His sores shall gradually deepen themselves that they may heal inwardly, while he gives no rest to the sole of his foot, and at night weariness must be his pillow, that so he may acquire experience against his rainy days. So it was with us.   
> ATTRIBUTION: Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers (1849), in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 1, p. 326, Houghton Mifflin (1906).


End file.
